We have a toxic relationship, me and you. No matter how badly you treat me or how many times I stagger home with bruises on my shins and beer down my back, I still endeavour upon you at least a few times a week… ok maybe more than a few.
Inevitably, students possess an inherent weakness and desire to escape the nine to five chaos of university life (especially if you’re a STEM subject student), and so we seem to submit ourselves willingly to the shameful depths of Durham nightlife fairly frequently. A cheaper, but arguably less effective, substitute for a therapist.
Durham nightlife, you know how to coax the student loan scrapings from our empty pockets; like a snake charmer, your windpipe echoes a never-ending refrain of questionable yet enchanting music, seducing our lifeless bodies to slither and sway drunkenly together on the sticky dance floor. What more could I want from you?
What more could I desire when you can offer me a boogie at the ‘worst’ night club in Europe? That clammy and claustrophobic corridor, filled to the brim with waves of wavy students: a visit is almost a rite of passage for a Durham student. With enough cheese to make a lactose intolerant person get a stomach ulcer, Durham’s ‘worst’ nightclub is like Marmite: love it hate it, you’ll still go to SNK.
Although, I see that you’re trying to up your game Durham, trying to beguile us all with flashy, new sweaty shot pits and cocktail caves. The ‘Gate of the Gods’ hardly opens its doors to reveal a heavenly realm. Yet, whilst it may appear to offer more sublime song choices, the glittering facade of Babylon sometimes just cannot compare to the infectiously comforting aroma of cheese toasties. She’s like that overly glamorous and garishly fashionable aunt that’s great fun for a sophisticated glass of wine but, sometimes she just cannot compare to that always-drunk-at-the-family-BBQ type who treats you to curly fries and garlic mayo dip at Paddy’s afterwards.
And so, our toxic love affair continues: we can’t get enough of your budget Jäger-bombs and loyal Klutineer cards. Even the permanent fixture of the creepy old man in Lloyds peeping by the bar can’t stop us from uniting in grinding harmony. Although you may not be perfect, you’re always there to prop us up (not physically, especially when we’re drunk) and support us through the years, as we begrudgingly claw our way through our degrees.
Durham nightlife, you may certainly not be something to write home about, but you certainly are my Friday night home.